


Beach Episode

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Bargaining, Beach Holidays, Facials, Frank Castle is an Idiot, Gags, Inappropriate Use of Expensive Underwear, Intercrural Sex, Is it bukkake if there's only two men jerking off?, M/M, Romantic Gestures as Bribery, Telepathic Sex, hints of pet play, just so much sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27410506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: They've all earned some fun in the sun.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Nathan Summers, Frank Castle/Nathan Summers/Wade Wilson, Frank Castle/Wade Wilson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48





	1. The Five Stages of Vacation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inbox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbox/gifts).



> Happy EXTREMELY BELATED birthday to Inbox, who writes the best damn Gunisher content and is an eternal inspiration to me.

There is a very deep, almost primal pleasure to returning to this selfish indulgence of an apartment after being out in the shit. Frank’s given up the pretense of living a civilian life in many ways, and ultimately this deep satisfaction that floods him at the sound of his key turning in the lock of his own front door -- a sound that means, above all things, that he’s come _home_ \-- tells him nothing more or less than that he needs to give up this pretense too. It’s only a matter of time before someone connects some dots and this place becomes more liability than comfort.

Still, a week and a half squatting in some one-room shoebox, staking out a warehouse some Proud Boy dipshits had acquired, every waking moment with Lieberman in his ear -- at the moment, _home_ sounds so quietly peaceful that the ridiculousness of him calling any place that falls to the wayside. 

A shower, a hot meal that didn’t come from a bodega microwave, about a year laying in his own goddamn bed. That’s all he wants. 

The apartment is warm enough to feel oppressive, which is an odd sort of relief. The stuffy air and the thick heat are markers of a room that's been left shut for several long, hot days in a row. It means no surprises, no one waiting for him in the dark, no misplaced clothes or new coffee mugs. 

Wilson hasn't been here. Right now, that's a relief; it's easier to know how to deal with Wilson meeting him head on. Wrestling with that insane bullshit is all but impossible when he’s dropped in the middle of some gag only Wade’s fully aware of.

Most of the time, Frank reflects as he locks the door behind himself, it’s just frustrating. And he’s been frustrated enough, the last few weeks -- not even the pleasure of turning a dozen fascist shitsticks into wet smears on the concrete of their rented workshop space had done much to relax him.

At this point, he’s starting to think this is just his new baseline. Like a chronic migraine, chronic tension biting at him, putting him on the edge of a hair trigger rage, rough for a while until suddenly he’s used to it. Until it’s just the default: easy to mitigate and function around without being exploitable or distracting. 

Lieberman suggested a break. A vacation. _Take a few weeks, fuck off to somewhere tropical, enjoy a few nights on the beach -- relax, man, you don’t need to be out here every night._

Cracking the window nearest the bathroom open and shucking his sweat-soaked shirt, Frank indulges in the wry fantasy of himself on vacation at some quiet, peaceful little beach. Laid out on the beach like a target. Holed up in some too-nice resort Lieberman would find for him. Finding trouble, or letting it find him -- how many places on a beach provide decent cover? What firearm is best concealed in a pair of swim briefs?

There’s the trouble with this line of work, he thinks as the shower grumbles to life, sputtering lukewarm water on his upturned face as he sweeps his hair back (needs a trim; something to worry about after a few weeks of sleep). This line of work, you stop being able to take vacations. Stop being able to even imagine them.

That’s fine. It’s perfectly fine to Frank, because he’s never seen much point in vacation. He’d been inclined to go through the motions once, the motions of being a man who needed a break from war, who needed rest and relaxation, who needed a peaceful escape -- he’d played at being a man with a family and all the cute trappings that came with such a notion, but it had never been him, not really.

He was at home in the thick of it. The mud and blood and brutality, that was where he thrived. And if the war dog in his head snapped the chain he had it on, if he ran wild and became part of the filth he was working to wash the streets of himself -- if that happened, he had people now, people more than capable of putting him down.

It’s a comfort, as far as he’s concerned, knowing that the men he allows closest to him would do the right thing if push came to shove. Even Lieberman, he thinks, would help take him down, if it were necessary. 

The shower helps. He feels less coiled on himself, viciously toweling his hair. Maybe not just the shower; for ten days he’s had someone either next to him or talking nearly continuously in his ear over com. He’s been directed, managed, handled; he’s been fed useless advice and subjected to enough tentative armchair therapy to last several lifetimes. 

A little privacy, a little quiet. That’s the vacation he needs, just a few hours of that every now and then, and the sanctity of a place like this, a place that’s confined and mundane and human to burrow himself away in for those few hours.

He doesn’t need a vacation, he needs this. Privacy, silence, alone time.

Which is of course why, when he steps naked from the bathroom, he finds Wilson sitting at his rickety dining table. The darkness of the room is broken only by the flicker of two tall candles that Frank definitely does not own at the center of the table. Unbelievably, there’s also food on the table. It’s most certainly not home cooked, despite the fact that Wilson has, from god knows where, procured glossy china plates and tableware that gleam in the candle light.

“Pookie! I thought you were gonna stand me up!”

The window, when Frank glances that way, is still only cracked. Wilson must have used his key; the attentive way he’s sat up in his chair, perky as a dog waiting for his master’s praise, suggests he expects his appearance to be welcome.

Another night this might be funny. It might even be sweet, because Frank’s found that, if you don’t expect too much, Wilson _can_ be sweet. In his own weird-ass way. 

“I made all your favourites. By which I mean I went to that Italian place Nate took you to after the thing with Villain of the Week a few months back and coerced them with my dollars to make the food you might eat if you weren’t so ruggedly dependent on gas station burritos.”

The thing is, Wilson’s brand of sweetness requires patience and the willingness to see past layers of plastered-on intentionally obnoxious bullshit, and Frank is fresh out of both. Shower or no shower -- fifteen luxuriating minutes of solitude or not -- he isn’t in the mood for this shit. He only just barely has the civility left to register that he doesn’t want to hurt the jackass sitting at his table -- he doesn’t want Wilson gone for good, he just wants to be allowed a goddamn _rest._

Drumming his fingers on the table, Wade almost looks anxious. Frank knows he’s not, because Wade doesn’t have the _sense_ to get anxious over showing up unannounced when Frank’s fresh back from a long, obnoxious exercise in patience. Wade thinks the spare key Frank gave him is a free pass to unlimited patience on Frank’s part, that Frank will always be a few jokes away from allowing Wade in his space again.

Disingenuous, maybe. Frank grits his teeth and crosses the dim room toward his dresser, determined to at least get a goddamn pair of pants on before he deals with this. He wanted a hot meal anyway, and whether he appreciates the intrusion or not, the spread of food smells beyond appetizing. 

“No need to stand on ceremony,” Wilson chirps from across the room, batting his eyes when Frank glares at him. Wade makes a show of looking him over, ground up, then back to his groin. When he finally meets Frank’s eyes, he bounces his eyebrows and stage whispers: “It’s not weird if I’m not wearing any panties either.”

Frank gives in and presses his hand to his face, pressure against his eyes that somehow soothes back the biting, unwanted annoyance. “What are you after here, Wilson?”

Wilson affects a mock-offended gasp, and Frank can picture the theatrics without looking: the hurt dialed up to absurdity, clown antics effectively blocking any worry of a genuine emotion slipping through. Which is intentional, Frank knows; he figured that shit out way before they ended up in bed together.

“I’m wounded. I’m hurt! Can’t a man shower his fuckbuddy in delicious food without implications of ulterior motives?”

It’s impossible, as is Wilson’s intent, to tell how much of that is pure ham put on to obscure any actual hurt. Frank thinks that warrants treating it all as an act, and if Wilson gets hurt worse by his doing so, well, maybe he’ll figure out this clown bullshit isn’t such a great defense mechanism after all.

Only problem there is, when push comes to shove, Frank likes Wilson more than he’s ever going to admit. He _cares_ about hurting Wade’s feelings without good reason, and he’s more ashamed of the times he’s hurt the dumb bastard than he is of the fact that he cares at all.

So he huffs, turns away from the dresser and marches over to the table, rolling his eyes as Wilson claps his hands softly in delight. When Frank sits, Wilson waves expansively at the spread of food in a shockingly silent ‘help yourself’ gesture. After a moment, Frank starts pulling food onto his plate; there’s an insane number of carbs here, bread and pasta and steaming, crisp roasted potatoes with herbs and spices, and Frank knows he’s going to have to work like hell to counteract any of this shit in quantity, but he’s fucking _hungry_ now, and it’s here.

The creak of wood and rattle of ice gets him to look up from a bite of carbonara. Wilson leans down to pull a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice on the floor beside him. As Frank watches, head tilted to let him split his attention between food and the merc, Wilson reaches to grab the empty glass beside Frank’s plate and pours for him. 

“Did you know when you spend more than eighty bucks on a bottle of wine, they toss in an ice bucket for free?” Wade asks. He grins when Frank doesn’t answer, filling the glass far more than Frank thinks is typical. “Neither did they. Drink up, this is supposed to be a _really_ good white, and I know how you like white fluids.”

Frank doesn’t know good wine from bad. He’s always preferred beer, and even there he’s not particularly picky. The wine, however, isn’t really for him. None of this is. It’s all part of some joke or scene that Wade’s setting to amuse himself, the food, the surprise arrival, the candles lighting their meal in an otherwise dark apartment.

“So,” Wilson says, sitting and pouring his own overly-generous glass. “Say I did have an ulterior motive.”

Unable to help it, Frank snorts around a mouthful of pasta, shaking his head. “What a shock,” he says, voice thick around the noodles. He’s not sure which part it is that hits the cynical funny bone he’s still got left: Wilson’s half-assed attempt at tact or the fact that the jackass can’t even pretend to be less than self-serving long enough to get through a meal.

Flapping a hand, Wilson makes some faux-chastising sound. “Eat, eat, don’t be rude. It’s a hypothetical. Like poisoned cats in boxes and changing black socks.”

Grunting, Frank returns to his food, intent on clearing his plate before he has to deal with whatever it is Wilson is building up to. If there is a god in heaven, it’ll just be sex. As a general rule, Wilson doesn’t feel the need to do grand gestures just to try getting in Frank’s bed, not of this variety at least, but trying to anticipate Wilson’s logic is itself an exercise in idiocy.

Frank’s crunching his way through stalks of steamed asparagus, woody but delicious despite the season, when Wade gives up twirling his wine and finally speaks up again. “Do you still call it a couple’s retreat when there’s three of us? Thrupple’s retreat? Threesome get-away? Anyway we slice it, it’s a beach episode.” 

“I’m not going,” Frank grumbles, taking in the way his fingers have tightened on his fork and forcing himself to relax. After a moment, he sets the fork down entirely, picking up the dinner roll he’d put on his plate and taking half of it in a single bite. “Don’t know where you got the impression that I’ve got the time or inclination for vacation, but it’s not happening.”

“Your mouth says no, but your high blood pressure and icy deathgrip on patience says, ‘Wade, please, teach me how to frolic again’.”

Scowling, Frank crams the other half of the roll in his mouth and chews. “I’m not the _frolicing_ type.”

“You absolutely could be though. Drink up, research shows wine is a great assist in that department.”

It’s hard to deter Wilson. Even when Frank _does_ lose his patience with the stupidity and flirty bullshit, Wilson spins it into part of the joke. He takes everything in stride, up to and including Frank hitting him; he allows just about any kind of violence against him to slide, and Frank hates to think Cable had been right on the why of it. That Wade would rather be a punching bag than out of Frank’s life. 

The idea is absurd and upsetting. Frank pushes it aside, letting it hit just hard enough to keep him civil. 

“I don’t have time for it,” he says, hunching his shoulder and spiking a chunk of potato on his fork, straight from the container. His plate is empty. “I’m just here for one night of decent sleep and then I’ve got some shithead upstate to take care of.”

Wilson makes a considering sound, slurps at his wine. In the candlelight, his face looks like a halloween mask: a knock-off Freddy Kreuger or a fucked up Michael Meyers relaxing at a romantic interlude. Normally, if Frank wants even a hint of Wilson’s actual emotional state, his only chance is watching Wade’s eyes. In this light, there’s not even that.

“That the American Heartsblood Militia guy, Eric Whatshisname?” 

Frank narrows his eyes and says nothing. 

“...Cuz I know you were doing your stakeout and takedown thing on a different group of skinheads for the last while so maybe you didn’t hear the news.” Wade’s teeth gleam when he grins, a ferocity that always makes Frank want to bare his own in return. “Somebody shot him _very_ dead yesterday. Lots of speculation since so many people fucking hated him. My bet’s on someone who wanted to free up everyone else’s time.”

“Then it’s somebody else,” Frank says, sour despite his effort to keep his tone flat and even. “There’s always somebody else.”

Wade’s face softens when he laughs this time, no longer the violence-hungry animal reporting on a kill. “Yeah, but at that point you can definitely start planning from some cute little pool-side lounge chair. It’s a vacation, a little R ‘n R, not a declared end to your extrajudicial efforts.”

Gently, Frank sets his fork down. He’s struck by the urge, nauseating in it’s pointlessness and it’s intensity, to swipe the too-nice dishes from the table, to shove the table into Wilson’s gut and keep shoving until he’s got the merc pinned like a bug to the wall. 

He exhales and stands. 

“I don’t have time for that shit.” He says curtly, trying not to be aware of how Wilson is ogling his dick. “I’m gonna sleep here tonight and tomorrow there will be something to get to. That’s how this shit goes.”

He does not apologize for this because he sees nothing to apologize for. They both know he’s right and even if he was wrong, he’s never been particularly apologetic. Wilson will pout like a child or continue griping for a while, try to get in Frank’s pants, and leave by the morning, the entirety of this game nothing more than a drawn out lead in to getting his dick wet. No point in indulging his own frustration, in answering the hackles-up snarls of that dog in his head. 

Behind him, Wade starts whistling off tune, chair creaking as he leans in it, ostensibly trying to watch Frank in the gloom as he moves to the dresser in search of pants Wilson can talk him out of later. 

This is what he gets for hoping for anything; hoping for a quiet weekend to enjoy nothing more social than whatever baseball game is playing tomorrow afternoon on public access. Of course Wilson would show up with some dipshit plan of a vacation in tow. That’s what Wilson does: find quiet and interrupt it.

“I spruced up your undies drawer,” Wilson says silkily from the table. “And all those roughed up black sweats. Really, babe, that Ariel Olivetti style 'off-the-clock musclehead' look is _so_ 2007."

Dragging open the top drawer of the dresser, it’s too goddamn dark to tell what’s in there, but the touch of cool, silky fabric is immediately wrong. Frank doesn’t know why he expected anything else when he grabs something and it unfolds into a slinky triangle of fabric, a thong at least two sizes too small. “Goddamnit, Wade,” he growls, teeth grinding at the sound of Wilson’s bark of laughter as he throws the thong back in the drawer and bends to yank open the drawer that should hold his jeans.

Somehow, this is worse. 

“You could absolutely shave and wax your pits though. I’d love to see you all oiled up ‘n clean.”

The drawer, which should be home to three pairs of secondhand shop sweats and three pairs of decent black jeans, is a pile of colourful basketball shorts, slick jersey fabric dyed bright enough that even in the dark Frank has no trouble telling they’ll be eye-searing with the lights on.

Every drawer he opens has undergone a similar transformation. Not a single article of his wardrobe remains as it was left. Even the slim drawer at the very bottom where he stashes bits of potentially useful junk has been opened and resupplied, stuffed with vibrators and condoms.

Frank’s teeth _hurt,_ he’s grinding them so hard, and he finds himself holding his breath against speech, certain that if he breaths a single word he’ll end up shouting. 

"I may have saved those old things. Maybe packed you a bag. You're welcome." The jackass continues, relentless and unhindered as always by Frank's sour mood. "Undies, socks, everything. Although…"

There's a way of speaking that Wilson has perfected, where the last word of a statement lilts upward in register, not as a question but nearly always in mockery. It's the preamble to teasing, and, in a different mood, Frank might be fighting a smile just hearing it. As it is, he straightens, breathes out slowly through his nose and nudges the bottom drawer shut with his foot. He stands stock still in front of his dresser, naked and struggling to smother his useless rage.

"Only thing I couldn't find was those excellent 'blaze it' socks I bought you last year, and since Natey-poo insists you don't throw anything away -- which is hoarding, bee-tee-dubs, but we'll address that in another arc --"

"I'm not going," Frank repeats flatly. "I've got–”

The brush of Wade’s fingers up the back of Frank’s neck is more than enough to make Frank flinch, when he hadn’t even noticed the bastard creeping in close enough to manage it. He has to give himself credit though; much as he wants to, he doesn’t sock Wilson in the face.

Doesn’t stop the dumbass from sensing where his impulse went, though. Frank knows Wilson clocked the violent reflex because that hand ruffles the fine hairs at the nape of neck, scritching at him like he’s a particularly amusing dog as Wade breathes a soft bit of praise. 

“Shh, that’s a _good_ boy.”

It should be infuriating.

It’s exactly the kind of shit that should piss him all the way off, clinch the violent impulse, make him double down on the instinctual drive to maim anyone who would _dare_ talk to him like that. 

It’s absolutely _not_ something that should actually soothe him. And yet, as he sighs through his nose and lets his shoulders slope, he can feel himself resigning to this. Won over with two syllables and a patronizing hand, if that doesn’t speak to the levels of exhaustion he’s combatting here, he doesn’t know what could. 

“ _Where_ do you want to go?” 

Wilson is fever hot, always. In the winter, Frank reckons this clingy horseshit will actually be pretty okay again, but it’s mid-July and hotter than fuck, so _anyone_ slipping to pressup against Frank’s spine, wrapping arms around him and breathing against his neck, _anyone_ doing that is wretched. With Wade, Frank can immediately feel himself start to sweat like he’s running a fever of his own.

Trying to shake Wilson off doesn’t do much. For an obnoxious, impulsive little shit, Wilson has a fair amount of tenacity, and he’s strong enough that Frank will have to genuinely work to get out of his grip. 

“How do you feel about Vancouver Island,” Wilson breathes in Frank’s ear, whispery enough to make Frank’s skin prickle despite the lack of sex appeal in the words. “I know what you’re thinking: Canada has too many gun regulations. Consider though: Nate’s got that good bodyslide tech.”

Grumbling and shrugging his shoulders, Frank manages to half extract himself from Wade’s grip, scowling when the man just holds on harder. “I’m having a really hard time imagining why you need me with you if you’ve got Cable on board.”

Wade kisses Frank’s ear, wet and obnoxious. “Well, see, I totally would, but I bought this big dumb dog last year.” When Frank grumbles something under his breath, Wade starts chuckling like Frank just told some dry joke he found passably funny. “I just don’t think I’d get _any_ relaxation in, worrying about if anyone remembered to feed him. Clean up after he pisses on the rug. All that good stuff.”

“Piss on _you_ ,” Frank growls without thinking, and winces before Wade gives the very predictable hum of approval, fingers trailing down his stomach.

“Promises, promises, Frankie.”

There’s sweat beading up in the small of Frank’s back, the crack of his ass. He just showered and this mutate asshole has him sweating just standing here. 

Heat, sweat, the pressure of Wade’s dick against his ass -- there’s a specific set of bodily responses all but hardwired into him, and Wade, goddamn little shit, is playing them, banking on them. It’s infuriating, not that his dick cares, half chubbed and eager for the attention Wade’s hand sliding up and down Frank’s belly promises. 

After a few seconds of Wade scratching his fingers through the upper half of Frank’s bush and giving him nothing else, Frank finally caves. 

“How long is this supposed to last?” He grunts, letting himself relax minutely against Wade’s chest as the man finally curls his hand around Frank’s dick. Frank can’t see Wade’s face at this angle, but he can tell the jackass is grinning anyway. The curve of his mouth confirms it, when he presses it to Frank’s shoulder. 

Wade’s got a sure grip, mottled, scarred fingers squeezing just right as he slowly strokes Frank hard. It’s frustrating -- borderline humiliating -- how good Wade makes him feel even when he’s pissed off. “The age-old question. Lotsa guys would say as long as we can make it, but it’s always so cute when you shoot off a minute in.”

Frank’s eyes drop closed, one of his hands sliding up over Wade’s, making him stroke a little faster, rocking his hips into it. “The trip, jackass.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Wade purrs, lowering his arm from where it’s been locked around Frank’s shoulders, sliding it down so he can grip Frank’s hip. Like this, breaking free would be a cakewalk, but Frank barely entertains the thought, keeping himself still as Wade drags his clothed dick against Frank’s bare ass. “Till we get bored, I guess. How do people usually plan these things?”

“The weekend.”

“Snore. You lasted longer than that snowed in without power. A month.”

Frank grunts, taking his hand off Wade’s so he can reach behind himself and slip his fingers beneath the waistband on Wade’s tacky sweats, encouraging him. “If we leave tonight, you have three days before the weekend is over.”

Wade fakes a whine and when he tries to let go of Frank’s dick, Frank growls. Hand back in place, stroking less than half the speed Frank wants, Wade protests: “We did the snowed in, bed-sharing thing for _four_ days and no one got laid!”

“That was work.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Wade says, as if Frank’s just argued his case for him. “C’mon, we’ve earned some fun in the sun! A month. _At least._ ”

“You’re welcome to stay out there as long as you want,” Frank says, using his grip on Wade’s waistband to hitch him closer. “You get me for the weekend.”

“Two weeks,” Wade offers, squeezing his fingers and rotating his wrist in a way that makes Frank groan. “Two weeks and you can slip me a breakfast nut every day.”

Shocking, Frank thinks, that it’s tempting to agree. Wade gives great morning head. Great head in general. “Weekend. Best I can do.”

The frustrated noise Wade makes is completely inappropriate for an adult man in the middle of giving the world’s slowest handjob. A faint smile creeps on Frank’s face, the benefit of Wade’s distracting bullshit finally hitting him. Maybe a few days away from the city and the war isn’t such a bad idea after all. 

Wade’s hand wraps fully around Frank’s cock, pressing him down and just holding him like that, tight but ineffectual in terms of letting him actually get off. It’s a threat, Frank can recognize that immediately, but it’s a threat that relies on Wade’s self control, a bluff, and so he doesn’t find himself particularly worried. 

“Say a week and I’ll suck you off right now,” Wade says, kissing at the back of Frank’s neck, licking at his hairline. Disgusting, except it reminds Frank of exactly how _not_ disgusting Wade’s mouth can be. 

“You wanna suck me off anyway.”

“So say yes.” Wade’s tongue traces the curve of Frank’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe in a half-assed attempt at a bite. “Say yes, Frankie, c’mon.”

Frank tries to do a little mental math. What assholes are currently in play, who’s been making what kinds of moves, how much of a shitstorm he’ll be walking into after even a weekend away. He tries to think of it rationally, tactically.

Then Wade pulls back just a little, sliding his hand off Frank’s hip, and suddenly there’s no sweatpants between Frank’s ass and Wade’s cock. Sweat isn’t much of a lubricant when it really counts, but it does just fine for Wade sawing his dick between Frank’s cheeks, rubbing that freakish heat and ropey scar tissue against Frank’s hole in a way that makes any thought very, very difficult. 

“That a better bargaining chip, sweetcheeks?” Wade asks sweetly, hand on Frank’s hip again, helping him rock back on that cock. “Been a minute, hasn’t it, you so busy working.”

“Fuck,” Frank breathes, thinking back to the weirdly mindblowing experience of riding Wade on his couch. Had it really been the better part of a year since he did that? “Christ.”

Wade rocks against him a little harder and squeezes his dick again, and suddenly the idea of waiting him out, betting on Wade’s impatience to guarantee his orgasm and end this bartering shit in one, looks less than ideal. “Those aren’t answers, Frankie, those are swears.”

“Fuck,” Frank repeats, mentally clawing for a slip of rationalization. “Fine. One. I’ll give you one fucking week.”

“Ooo, that’s an apt way of putting it,” Wade says cheerfully, taking his hand off Frank’s leaking cock just long enough to lick his palm, hauling Frank back against him and letting his own dick slip between Frank’s thighs. On reflex, Frank squeezes his legs together and bucks back slightly, sweat giving all the glide they’re going to get as Wade starts jerking him off in sincerity. 

It’s not the rough fuck Frank wants, but it’s good, the burn of Wade fucking his thighs and the clench of Wade’s hand around him. Wade tugs him to bend a bit, pushing hard against Frank’s ass and following the curve of his spine as Frank leans forward to press his forearms to the dresser, Wade panting and babbling nonsense against his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna get Nate to cum on your thighs and do this again over the weekend,” Wade grunts, and Frank bares his teeth, eyes squeezing shut. “Get you so wet. Double stuffed.”

“Shut the fuck _up,_ ” Frank snarls, half begging even as he’s cumming, splattering the front of his dresser and gasping raggedly as he bucks back against Wade. The heat and texture of Wade’s fingers still wetly squeezing on him is too good, his hips stuttering to chase it even though he’s spent, and Wade gamely follows, hips jackrabbiting against Frank’s ass as he fucks his thighs. 

Wade laughs as he cums: that high, unfocused glee that always seems to overtake him when he’s getting it so good he stops being able to make actual words, and it’s disgusting, hot slick wetness spurting between Frank’s thighs, the back of his balls; disgusting and so goddamn good in the moment that Frank can’t stop himself from groaning, flexing his thighs in an attempt to milk Wade for all he’s got. 

They end up against the dresser, Frank sagging forward on it with Wade cleaved to his back, panting against his shoulder blade. It’s not the worst feeling, though it’s way too hot for this shit. The heat, at least, prolongs the cooling of the cum on him.

“God,” Wade says, pulling back slowly. “I always forget how hot you get when you make a good, hard deal.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank says, resting his forehead on the back of his hand and taking a moment to catch his breath. “When are we supposed to leave?”

Walking his fingers up Frank’s arm, Wade slips in close again, folding his hands on Frank’s shoulder and seeming to consider. “After you shower at least, sheesh. You reek, Frank.”


	2. Congratulations: It's a Mindfuck

When Frank gets out of the shower a second time, Wade has turned on the lamp beside the couch and is lounging, feet up across most of two seats and back leaning against a bulky duffel bag Frank can only assume contains his stolen clothes. The mutate doesn’t look up from his phone as Frank steps out of the bathroom, just waves a hand grandly toward the bed, where a full set of Frank’s clothes has been laid out.

Or, rather, a nearly full set. Upon closer inspection, Frank finds the underwear laid at the top of the pile are the same kind of silky, too-delicate confectionery as the thongs neatly filling his top drawer last he checked.

He makes some vague noise, feeling his lip curl as his irritation comes twisting back to life in his guts. This pair is at least sized a bit more generously, less like the elastic is going to give up the ghost halfway trying to pull it up his thighs, but it's still nothing he wants to wear. There’s something about them that’s inherently sexual, more a piece of fetish costuming than underclothes; the cut is masculine, generously shaped, but the fabric is decadent in a way that translates as inherently feminine, as do the decorative touches. There are tiny, skull-shaped metal studs around the waist, and a bizarre window cut just above the pouch.

Honestly, he’d just as soon go commando until his clothes are returned to him, presumably at whatever hotel Wilson will have them staying at to enhance his current fantasy of a group vacation. But as he starts to set the damn things aside, Wilson drops his ass on the bed, sprawling out decadently across the sheets and holding the thong back up at Frank.

"Really gotta insist on this one," he says, managing to to keep the smile off his face but failing miserably to keep the teasing from his tone. "Nate _is sure_ you'll refuse, but he had some really compelling ideas that'll make it so worth it. No spoilers, just trust me. Also they're exactly your size. Also also, you haven't lived till you've had your jewels snuggled up in four hundred dollars of mulberry silk."

Sighing, Frank wordlessly takes the damn things back and steps into them. He thinks possibly the worst part of the entire experience is that the silk actually really _does_ feel quite nice.

Wilson continues to stretch out over his bed, writhing into a series of poses that mock the traditionally sensual and watching Frank pull his clothes on and throw his sodden towel over the top of his clothes hamper, the only way it'll dry without turning to mold. As seems to be the default, Wade runs his mouth the entire time, and Frank lets the noise become part of the ambient as he squares the apartment for another extended absence.

There's rarely any reason to subject himself to listening too closely to the trash that tumbles out of Wilson's mouth outside of an actual conversation. Generally speaking, when Wilson wants attention, he makes it known; the talking is somewhere between a self-soothing activity and a bad habit Wilson has no interest in improving.

The food on the table has mysteriously vanished, along with the dishes, which is disappointing only in that the food was good and the leftovers probably would have survived a week in the fridge. It's one less thing to have to worry about, so Frank simply rinses out the wine bottle and mops down the rickety little table, scratching at beads of wax from the candles and making a face at the mess without any intention of actually scraping it clean.

Finally, he blows out the twin flames and turns back toward Wilson, who is once again on the couch, sitting up in the straight-backed posture that so reminds Frank of a dog begging for praise. In his own way, Wilson is doing his best impression of well behaved, largely out from underfoot and not aggressively demanding Frank's attention. When Frank jerks his head toward the door and passes the couch to go shut and bolt the window, Wade gets eagerly to his feet, slinging the strap of the duffel over his shoulder and waiting by the door.

It feels natural to let Wade lean in and kiss him before opening the door, and shockingly easy to huff a little laugh when, sniffing exaggeratedly, he comments on Frank's shampoo only to say he preferred the 'sweaty cum-sock stench' after all.

"You still smell like a used condom, though," Frank says, earning him that delighted gasp and gentle, rapid clapping of hands he always gets when Wilson registers that he's told a joke. 

The banister by the stairs whines alarmingly when Wilson leans back against it, watching Frank lock his door and fish a much-battered baseball cap from his hoodie pocket. He looks less like he's trying to hide all the scarring and shifting tissue of his face and more like he's accentuating it, especially when he pulls his hood over the cap. Frank knows that’s not the intent, and doesn't see any reason to say what he’s thinking.

What he’s thinking is: there’s very little Wade can do to hide how fucked up his skin is and every attempt at doing so only makes him look like a thug.

"Nate's supposed to be packing up, so we can just take off from my place. Personally, I think the longer we take getting back, the better. He’s always got a fifty-point bullet list of shit he has to check off before we can leave for anything.”

Frank scowls, keeping pace with Wilson as they hit the street. Even at this hour, there’s a good deal of foot traffic to swallow them, but there’s not much to worry about in the way of losing each other. Not enough of a crowd, and even in the dark the hot pink rhinestones on Wilson’s ass glint under every storefront sign and streetlight, so he sticks out like a beacon from behind.

“Thought about calling a cab at your place, but I know how you feel about ‘security’,” Wade says, turning to walk backwards so he can make sure Frank sees his air quotes as he makes them. A number of people swerve to avoid him, glaring at Frank as they pass like he has any ability to control the idiot. “Thought about taking the train, but you know how I get in tight spaces with you.”

Reflexively, Frank’s lip curls a little, the barest hint of the grimace he wants to make. The issue is never being in close quarters with Wilson, even when Wilson starts getting inappropriately handsy in public. Frank hates public transportation with Wade not for the proximity it forces between them, but the proximity between them and others. The way Wade gets squirrely because of strangers expressing discomfort around him; the multifarious ways that squirreliness manifests. 

Public transportation with Wilson is a nightmare and never the same nightmare twice, and Frank would much rather avoid it.

“So we’ll just grab a cab at the bar, it’s cool.”

Frank grits his teeth and says nothing, watching Wilson hike the duffel bag up on his shoulder and turn back around. It’s four in the morning and, clean and fed though he most certainly is, Frank is back to wanting nothing more than to fall face first on his bed and not move for as many consecutive days as he can manage. A mile hike uptown to get to Wilson’s merc pick-up bar isn’t exactly appealing at the best of times, and certainly not now.

It takes the better part of half an hour to get there and the one highlight is that a familiar cab is already sitting at the curb out front of the bar when they get there. They don’t even have to go into the bar; Wilson’s cabbie friend spots them and rolls down his window, leaning out to wave at them with the eager fervor of a man worried about going unseen.

Several times in the past, Wilson has used this specific cab and cabbie as transport. He’s a friend of some variety, intensely devoted to Wilson in a way that Frank thinks is both endearing and vaguely pitiful. The young man was kind and weirdly intense, and he’d expressed familiarity with Frank’s work by telling him he was a ‘big fan’ of his commitment and work ethic. He’d then bantered extensively with Wilson about costuming motifs and his own dreams of either vigilantism or mercenary work.

Ultimately, Frank had found it simpler to let the pair of them run their mouths and tune them out, the same way he could tune Wilson out while lining up a shot. In subsequent rides, the same practice had proven useful; even when Wilson and the cabbie were ostensibly including him in the conversation, they weren’t exactly hurting for his input. The kid could get them from point A to point B without drawing attention and he was so intensely loyal to Wilson it seemed unlikely that he'd try anything stupid. Generally speaking, those were the important things.

This ride is very similar to the handful of others that Frank's had to sit through and it takes less than fifteen minutes to cross town in the early morning traffic. Wilson and his buddy talk, the cabbie excited and goddamn near worshipful of Wilson's attention with Wilson somewhere between patronizing and oozingly affectionate in return. It's an incredibly weird dynamic to witness and Frank honestly is more than happy to ruminate on nothing at all as they glide across the city. 

When they pull up out the front of the apartments Wilson is currently holed up in, Frank grabs the duffel and climbs out without waiting for Wilson and his friend to wrap up whatever weird parting ritual they're partaking in. It seems to involve a lot of Wade touching the cab driver, who looks simultaneously delighted and off-put.

Finally, Wilson gets out of the cab and joins Frank on the front steps of his building, grinning. "Guess it's time for me to invite you upstairs," he says, like they've been out together all night until the small hours of the morning. After the walk to the cab and the ride here, Frank only grits his teeth against anything biting that might try to slip out, gesturing from Wilson to hurry up and unlock the door.

Of course, Wilson's apartment is several floors up. The elevator ride is excruciatingly slow and noisy, but Frank is thankful for it. The apartment Wilson was staying in when Frank first met him was a third floor walk up; Wilson is now on the ninth floor and, at this point, Frank's pretty sure he'd just lay down on a landing and sleep if asked to climb that many flights.

The door to the apartment opens on its own when Frank approaches it, and he can see Cable sprawled on the couch on the other side of the sitting room.

It's a larger apartment than Wilson has used before, definitely more space than Frank rents. It's an improvement: the furniture is in better repair, the kitchen less shoddy. Frank already knew Wilson moved into a new space with Cable, whatever marital interruptions they'd experienced last year clearly smoothed over. Frank is just surprised to see that Cable can keep a space that Wilson lives in looking like something other than a war zone. There's way fewer signs of Wilson's general destructiveness in this space and far less haphazardly stowed trash than Frank is used to.

Once inside, Wilson rushes past Frank, shucking out of his hoodie and dropping it on the floor as he goes so he can pile into Cable's lap on the couch, arms around his shoulders, kissing him like he's been gone for days or weeks instead of a few hours at best. As the door shuts behind him, Frank steps into the sitting room and takes in the space: the half wall between the L-shaped main room and a tidy kitchenette, a hallway leading back beyond, presumably to the bathroom and bedroom situation. As far as Frank knows, Wilson and Cable haven't shared a room before and he hopes Cable is sane enough to keep it that way.

In the middle of the sitting room, there's a pile of bags, presumably the packing Cable was doing while Wilson collected Frank. Frank drops his duffel from his shoulder to join the rest, and Wade perks up from where he's been gnawing Cable's lip.

"So we're all set then? That's a stunningly few bags we have there, Natey-pie,” he comments sweetly, hands flexing on Cable’s shoulders as he bats his eyes. “You sure you packed everything?”

Cable snorts, gives Frank a look and then shakes his head at Wade. “I told you I’m not packing your shit,” he says. “Your room is a fucking biohazard.”

Wilson whines and tumbles off Cable’s lap backwards, landing in an awkward, limp sprawl. “Oh come _on_ , I was gone for _hours_. You totally should have cracked.”

The feeling of Cable slipping into Frank’s head is like aloe on a burn, a cool shock against something hot and livid. Frank is restless and tired and if they’re supposed to go somewhere then he just wants to go. In lieu of that, he’d like to be allowed to fucking rest for a while and get back to his war.

“Never gonna happen,” Cable says, watching Frank stand there while he nudges Wade with the toe of his boot. “Go pack your shit. Frank and I will wait out here.”

Groaning, every bit a put-upon teenager asked to do a troublesome chore, Wade drags himself off the floor. The expression on his face when he looks at Frank is baleful, long-suffering, but his eyes are playful, bright. Whatever the fuck he’s implying, Frank would rather he just hurried up so they could leave.

There’s a gentle, invisible pressure around one of Frank’s hands, tugging him further into the room, and it’s easier to just comply, settling down on the couch with Cable as Wade disappears down the hall and slams into his room. Frank wants to pace, to move, agitation curling hot around the base of his neck and making him feel snappish and spiteful again.

Cable keeps him seated on the couch, their legs touching from hip to calf. However irritable Frank wants to be, Cable keeps him still, the touch of his mind against Frank’s own as gently grounding as the press of their legs. 

“Are you wearing the underwear Wade bought you?” he asks. From Wade’s bedroom there’s a crashing clatter, a whole bunch of miscellaneous crap being moved at once. The sound makes Frank’s teeth clench; Cable just sits beside him, calm as anything and sliding that calm with gentle pressure into Frank’s head. It’s like a great warm hand petting over the part of Frank that has been bristled up and snarling most of the night.

Frank thinks Cable ought to be more worried about getting bit, poking at an angry dog like that, but the man just smiles serenely and repeats his question, soft and crisply enunciated. When Frank finally thinks a solid, vindictively loud affirmative, Cable’s eyes drift closed with the barest expression of pain that makes Frank immediately feel both satisfied and like a complete asshole. 

But Cable doesn’t pull away or tell him off, and the wave of cool calm he’s feeding into Frank’s mind doesn’t change or abate. “I owe him fifty dollars then.”

“He stole the rest of my shit,” Frank grumbles, galled by having Cable poking around in his head and still being expected to talk out loud. “I’d say you don’t owe him a fucking thing.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Cable rumbles, and there’s an implication there that Frank tries very hard to shut down, the curl of arousal that twists in his gut utterly inappropriate when Cable hasn’t even made any honestly sexual advances of his own. 

But Frank can’t quite stop himself from thinking of something Wade has said -- Wade, not Cable -- about compelling thoughts which Cable had suggested, too vague to mean much to Frank at the time, but now, with the man sitting so close and barely touching him, rife with possibility. 

Frank has mostly stopped looking for the boundaries of what he’ll let Cable do to him: fantasies go everywhere from a violent fuck in the bloody aftermath of some seek and destroy mission to Cable laying face down on some plush bed, slicked up so well that Frank can sink into him like he was made for fucking. When he allows himself to think of Cable’s interest in him, his mind goes anywhere and everywhere, nothing off limits. When he allows himself to think of Cable keeping promises -- Cable keeping things fair -- his mind turns to the numerous ways Cable finds to prioritize Frank when they fuck, and it makes him burn, embarrassed and aroused.

“Did he tell you what I’ve been thinking of ever since he showed me those things?” Cable asks, as Wade shouts cusses from his bedroom. Frank’s jaw tenses and then he feels something, featherlight, like a kiss, where the muscle in his jaw works to grind his molars together. Another touch on the other side of his face. Then-- again on his neck, then all at once, the sensation of something like the whisper of hands, the very barest pressure, ghosting over his biceps. “Did he, Frank?”

Somewhere, distantly, Frank is sure that Cable has to know that Wade mentioned it, just barely, and that Frank pushed the thought aside and didn’t let himself think about it then and there, but now he’s struggling to think about much else. He’s pretty sure that, without Frank or Wilson saying a damn word, Cable knows exactly what was said and what was done tonight, because Cable doesn’t have to make his presence in Frank’s head known and because Cable can read Frank as easily as flipping open a magazine -- something he loves and loathes all at once.

“Made some allusion to it, yeah,” Frank says, his voice dry and quiet, all the venom he’d been brewing just a few minutes ago evaporated in the heat of Cable’s attention. “Said you had some compelling ideas.”

The invisible hands feeling up Frank’s biceps have been joined by an invisible grip on his chest, one on each side, squeezing with slow, almost aching pressure. Frank can’t help arching his back into it, tongue pushing up fat behind his teeth as Cable feels him up. Behind them, through the wall, Wade is still throwing crap around his room, loudly mouthing off about the progress of his packing, and the moment feels weirdly stolen, arousing in the notion of Wade unaware of what they’re doing just one room away. 

Arousing in the notion of Wade standing in the mouth of the hall and watching, mouth open and dick out. Equally, in the idea of Wilson never once realizing, like they’re a pair of horny teens dry humping on a friend’s couch.

Something pinches his nipples, pinches sharp and then _twists_ , and Frank snarls through grit teeth, eyes blinking open. He hadn’t even realized he’d been squeezing them shut, but the sight of Cable next to him, eyes fixed on him, that shiny one glowing so bright it’s hard to look right into it, makes him even harder.

Cable doesn’t say anything else. Frank expects him to, expects teasing, expects the usual drawn out bullshit, to be toyed with until he’s ready to beg outright. He expects to be told to wait until later, to be left to twist on the hook of arousal that Cable so easily puts him on, unfulfilled at least until they’ve gotten where they’re going, if not longer. Cable, after all, has a week to toy with him. 

But Cable reaches out and finally touches him with physical, real hands -- solid weight and strong grip -- hauling him unprotesting so that he’s half in Cable’s lap with metal fingers digging bruises into his hips. It’s hard, keyed up this way, to tell the telekinetic mutant shit from the physical: Frank’s unsure if Cable uses his actual hands or his brain to unzip his fly and shove his jeans down as far as he can. He just knows it happens fast and feels good, twisting up on his knees both to find a more comfortable way to sit and to make Cable’s work easier. 

Cable’s hand on him through the silk panties is hot, too fucking solid to be anything but glorious reality, and Frank stays up on his knees like that, swaying back to push himself into that grip. 

In his mind, he sees how he looks from where Cable’s sitting -- the slutty eagerness on him -- as Cable lifts his hands to grip the hem of his shirt and lifts it, rolling it up under his arms so Frank’s chest is bared. In his mind, Cable sits forward to mouth at Frank’s chest, licks his nipple and then bites it, purrs out something smug about Frank’s fantastic tits.

Physically, neither of them move. Frank stays balanced on his knees, shirt down properly, and Cable stays leaning back into the couch, looking up at him like he’s some wonder. 

The mind show continues: Cable’s hand grips Frank’s cock through silk. First it's the warm strength of flesh and bone, then the threat of inhuman metal; the two options fade into one another, appealing for different reasons. Cable bites at Frank’s nipples and buries his face against the thicket of hair spreading from the center of Frank’s chest, whichever hand not squeezing Frank’s dick mauling his chest wherever Cable’s not biting. 

Frank is hard in those damn panties, but Cable has done nothing but press a hand over him and laid back to watch. He can feel that Cable is in a similar state underneath him: a thick bar of heat under his ass before he rocks back up onto his knees. 

In fairness, he should do something -- anything -- to reciprocate (or at least participate), but he can’t bring himself to move, enraptured by the scene playing out in his head: how he’s pretty sure Cable’s dropped the telekinetic stuff but he still feels the ghost of a touch stroking him just like Cable is in his mind. Now it’s a human hand; now it’s machine.

He feels half insane with it, like he’s being wound up so tight that soon he’ll have no choice but to snap. 

Fantasy Cable slips his fingers into the little window at the top of the pouch around his junk and yanks it forward, tugging the thong into Frank’s ass and getting as much slack on that pouch as he can. That way, he can wrap his fingers around Frank’s silk-covered cock and stroke in slow motion. Frank feels his cock soaking the fabric around it; simultaneously he feels the hot slick of precum wetting his palm. He’s watching himself turn red and and writhe up into the choking hold of Cable’s fingers; he’s feeling Cable press his palm against his cock and barely move at all.

“Nathan,” he chokes out, his own hand finally moving so that he can grip the thickness of Cable’s forearm, eyes fluttering at the crossed-wire goodness of fantasized sensation versus the reality of Cable barely touching him. “Fuck, Nathan, I’ll…”

 _I want you to cum in them,_ Cable’s voice rumbles, and in his fantasy Frank arches his back and does just that, groaning this throaty snarling sound. And shuddering, tense as a wire where he’s perched over Cable’s lap, Frank _doesn’t_ cum and _feels_ himself cum anyway, watches this fantasy version of Cable’s buck and bare his teeth, feels his dick pulse and throb -- feels even, somehow, the wet slick of his cum as Cable continues to stroke him through the silk, intent on jerking him dry. 

He feels an orgasm he’s not having through the uncanny duality of seeing Nathan lounging back against the couch and also seeing him shoved up in his space, chin to Frank’s chest, watching his target lose his mind.

“Christ, Nathan, Christ,” Frank pants, squeezing his eyes shut. It doesn’t do anything, except possibly make the projected fantasy come in even stronger, and he can feel Nathan laughing at him. He barely makes any sound, but the sense of horny amusement translates perfectly in the press of Cable’s mind against his own: a rush of fondness and good humour. “Just, fuck, come _on_.”

 _Gonna beg like a good dog, Lieutenant?_

Frank’s teeth clench and something in his back pops loudly as he arches his back and pushes his dick manually into Cable’s hand. The silk is decadent even spoiled by his precum, but it’s restrictive, uncomfortable, and Frank’s never been in the habit of willingly cumming in his own clothes.

But Cable gives him no quarter, no room to get himself free, and the keen awareness of being watched -- _studied_ in his desperation -- the discomfort of him being trapped all part of the debauchery Cable is enjoying, all of this makes him needy in a way he hates and a way he adores.

 _Even a good dog needs to be muzzled sometimes, I suppose,_ Cable rumbles, and Frank’s only eighty percent certain that those words are just in his head. He’s lost in the fantasy, where Cable is growling up at him from where his face is pressed against Frank’s tits, the warm metal of his left hand sliding against Frank’s skin and dipping under the elastic of the thong. With a jerk of his hand he tears the elastic -- it tugs the silk tight to Frank’s dick, makes him gasp -- and then pulls it free entirely, balling soiled silk into his palm.

Frank feels his face burn and in the fantasy his mouth automatically parts at the press of silk against his lips, tasting the salt of sweat and the bitter cum through the fabric as Cable stuffs it whole onto his tongue. He takes it like he needs it: the warm roughness of those metal digits petting over his lips, the bare choke of silk against the opening of his throat.

That’s what makes him cum for real, some low animal sound clawing up his throat and catching in his teeth. Cable doesn’t even have to move his hand -- Frank just braces his hands on Cable’s knees and arches his back, rubbing himself off on Cable’s unyielding palm like there’s nothing else in the world he could do.

Just like that, the fantasy, all the additional tactile sensation and impressions that come with it, dissolves. There’s an impression, a sort of cresting wave of awe, of pleasure and joy, that crests in Frank’s mind, and then that connection is broken, making Frank aware suddenly of himself as totally singular, his mind as singularly his own. Nathan breathes something soft: a quaint word and then something more colloquial. “Oath, Frank, _fuck_.”

Shivering, Frank settles himself into Cable’s lap, aware all at once of how sharply his knees ache and how the sweat has pooled on the nape of his neck and in the small of his back. He needs to get up, clean himself up and get ready so that when Wilson finally drags himself out of his room they can get this show on the road.

He settles his face in the crook of Cable’s neck instead, breathing in the smell of him. Nathan’s hands pet over his back, smoothing cotton again his sweaty skin, and then, gently, those big hands push him to sit upright. Before Frank can protest, Nathan is buttoning him back into his jeans, grinning like the devil as he carefully works the zip back up.

“Leave it on,” he says. “If you’re good, you can change when we get there.”

Really, he should protest. There are multiple reasons why, but voicing any of them feels weaker than actual compliance. Especially with Cable looking at him, rock hard beneath him, grinning and projecting a voracious sort of lust that Frank would very much like to see acted upon.

As Frank sits back upright, he can’t help but grimace. The feeling of soaked silk slipping against his dick, matting into his pubes and sticking to his skin is equally disgusting and arousing. He can barely maintain eye contact, his face beet red as he glowers at Cable. He feels used in a way he’s not particularly familiar with, toyed with and put aside for later, and it’s somehow worse for the fact that Cable is still hard as iron under Frank, aroused but not nearly as affected. 

Even having cum, Frank feels just about ready to snap. It’s no longer rage coiled on him, but the same kind of idiot arousal that always seems to take over when he’s alone with these two. Able to focus on their actual surroundings again, he can still hear Wilson slamming around in his room, the occasional crash and clatter of various belongings echoing through the wall behind Cable’s smug face. Experience has taught Frank that Wilson will draw out a simple task for the sake of comedy, the same as he’ll happily rush through something that requires care if it’s funny enough. 

There’s not really any reason Cable couldn’t fuck him now. It’d make both of them a lot more comfortable before they hit the road.

He’s about to say something to that effect when the door to Wilson’s room crashes open. After a few seconds, a beaten-up duffel sails into the room and crash lands beside the pile of luggage Cable has created in the center of the room. 

“Sorry that took so long,” Wade says, grinning from the hall. “My muscles have just been having the weirdest spasms, completely out of my control. One might say flexing, involuntary. So I figured you two needed a few extra minutes.”

Cable’s tone is somehow fond as he rubs his hands up and down the outside of Frank’s thighs, smiling benignly at Wade as he says, “You know that bullshit is only funny if someone else in the room gets the joke, right?” 

“Oh trust me, baby Agent K, someone got it,” Wilson says, turning his head and winking at no one. “So if you two are done playing filthy brain footsie…”

The mutant shit is very rarely overwhelming to Frank anymore. Even Wade’s bullshit has started to become less outrageous and obnoxious as time wears on. Still, there’s something disorienting and vaguely nauseating about Cable using telekinesis to get him on his feet. Equally, there’s something uncanny about how Wilson can register both as a safe, trustworthy presence and be giving him the most predatory once-over possible as he crosses the room. 

It’s bizarre, the way this hits as both insanely far out of what has come to pass as Frank’s normal and at the same time almost homey, not mundane but perhaps simply domestic. When Cable hands him one of the duffels and then reaches out to lace their fingers together, it’s weird and perfectly acceptable, a break into normalcy. Wade laces his own fingers together on Frank’s other shoulder and bats his eyes at him, and it shouldn’t be normal to lean in and kiss him, but that’s exactly the impulse that Frank chases. He lets Wade draw the kiss into something hotter than sweet, enjoying the press of teeth to his lip when he draws back.

Cable gives the room one last sweep, eye flashing brightly, then closes his hand on his bulky watch. Frank has just enough time to tense, the way he always does on a mission when Cable uses this little trick, and then they’re swallowed in a flash of light.


	3. Biting Off More Than Can be Chewed

The first time Cable used this fancy tech shit on Frank, Frank had doubled over before that bright flash of light even dissipated and emptied his guts straight on the floor. There had been breakfast burrito splattered on his boots all night, Wilson ribbing him over his tender tummy the whole fucking time.

He’s better with it now, but it’s still nauseating. He’s not liable to puke, but the disorientation makes his ears ring and something twinge unpleasantly in his skull. Travel like this takes less than a second, but there’s something his system just wants to reject about it, especially when they cross numerous time zones and radically alter their surroundings. Frank’s toes curl in his boots, like he can forcibly ground himself by gripping the earth beneath his feet, his lip curling at the roil of his stomach.

The room they’re in is dark, but not 4AM dark. They arrive facing a big bay window, french doors shut against the night. It’s dark enough outside Frank can’t make out much beyond a few feet of flagstone, but he can hear the low rush of water hitting sand over and over as the tide comes in. Through the glass doors he can see the moon, still a fingernail sliver but higher in the sky. West coast time, he thinks, grimacing as Wilson dumps his bags on the floor with a relieved groan and shouts his dibs on the toilet like they’ve been traveling for hours rather than fractions of a second.

When Frank says as much, he’s treated to Wilson wrapping his arms around his shoulder and kissing his cheek, managing to make the contact cartoonishly loud.

“Body slides always make me have to tinkle,” he says brightly. “Or maybe it’s the prostate cancer. Either way, I’m gonna go check out the little boy’s room.”

The lights click on in the room, turning the glass of the door to a weak mirror. Frank turns in place, letting Cable’s fingers slip from his and taking in the rest of the room. There’s a big bed, mattress piled so thick Frank can tell at a glance his back, at least, is going to appreciate this little venture. The wooden bedframe looks solid and there’s gauzy curtains mounted from the ceiling and pulled back against the wall.

It’d be kind of pretty in an overdone, expensive kind of way, if the walls weren’t painted puce and the duvet wasn’t some kind of rusty, brickish orange. As it stands, the room looks like a luxurious hold over from some rich drug pusher in the 70s, kitschy and tacky in a way that says Wilson picked it and Cable either has no taste or doesn’t know any better.

Letting the strap of the duffel bag he’d been passed slide from his shoulder, Frank sets his bag among the ones on the floor. Cable’s consciousness nudges in against his own, and Frank allows it. He’s not sure he has a choice in the matter -- he wouldn’t know how to fight a thing as ephemeral as telepathy off -- but he doesn’t try to school his thoughts in any one direction.

 _You’ll see the beach in the morning,_ Cable tells him, and then says out loud: “The morning view is really something.”

Frank grunts something unintelligible, thinking that it’s been a long time since he was particularly enthusiastic about sunrises. He doesn’t mean it to be particularly rude, just a fact, but Cable’s amused noise of consideration is all the warning he’s given before Cable pushes a memory that's not his own to the forefront of his mind.

He feels Cable’s hand settle on the back of his neck in the present, grounding him against the sense of dizziness at seeing himself from behind in a completely different setting. This is a memory, not a fantasy; he remembers those bandages, the raw red edges of burns left to breathe, and he remembers the feeling of being swallowed by light, looking out those windows as the sun came up, its light magnified by the snow and glistening rock. This memory of him has a mug of coffee in one hand and the other curled loose at his side, body at ease as he stares out the big glass doors at the back of Cable’s Swiss mountain retreat.

There is an emotional tint to this memory: an interest and an affection Frank doesn’t know how to credit, plus a sense of respect and curiosity that Frank can’t account for when they’d only have known each other for a handful of months when Cable would have seen him like this.

“I seem to recall you enjoy a good view,” Cable says, and the sense of fondness curling around Frank’s brain swells -- amusement in reaction to Frank’s instinctive, ineffectual defensiveness. The vision of Frank caught up in that glowing sunrise shifts into something else, and this, Frank knows, is not a memory at all. Certainly it’s not a memory he has, and he’d think this one would stick with him: Cable holding him up against all that glass; Frank trapped, trying to hold his own weight against the cold panes behind and above him as Cable fucks him slow.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, blinking and shaking his head to clear it as Cable laughs behind him. “Do you have an off button?”

Big fingers squeeze against the back of his neck, and Frank can’t help the way that makes his toes curl again, in pleasure this time. Wilson gives shockingly excellent massages, but Cable always knows where to touch straight away and the kind of pressure Frank needs, the restriction, the control.

“Too tired to get me off now, Castle?” Cable says softly, low and gravely, some kind of promise lurking in that played-up tone of disappointment. “And here I was, banking on that dependable sense of reciprocity you’ve always shown.”

It’s absurd, really. Absurd how he’s gotten off twice in as just many hours, absurd that he’s still trapped in a pair of silk jocks that are absolutely ruined with the proof of his last orgasm, absurd that he feels a thrill of horror at the idea of disappointing Cable now, at leaving him wanting. Absurd at how, tired or not, the idea of missing a chance to make Cable cum fills him with an agitated sense of urgency, and yet a stubborn belligerent part of him sees it also as fair play when Cable wouldn’t even touch him properly on the couch.

Absurd that he’s been plucked out of an easy evening and dragged to the opposite side of the continent, and half of him thinks the best possible option is telling Cable his blue balls are what he gets for playing games on the couch back there instead of making good use of the time they’d had, while the other half is just desperate to get on his knees and choke down Cable’s cum as fast as he can get it.

“There you go,” Cable breathes, hand feather-light on Frank’s shoulder as Frank turns toward him, and that’s absurd too. The easy way Cable can read him, when Frank’s not even wholly sure what he’s feeling or intending. “Let’s stick to something familiar, huh?”

Cable talks to him sometimes in ways that Frank knows should infuriate him. Smug, superior; he talks to Frank like Frank’s a half-trained dog he’s carefully coaxing into behaving. It gets Frank’s hackles up and yet never makes him snarl the way it should. He’s never thought in sincerity about hurting Cable, and when Cable’s hand presses on his shoulder, Frank just glares at him as he lowers himself down onto his knees.

At least the rug under him is soft.

Cable unzips himself and fishes out his cock, and Frank finds that, however much he intends to keep his eyes stubbornly on Cable’s face, his eyes refuse to look anywhere but at the dick in Cable’s fist. He’s not fully erect this time, softened in the minutes since they were on the couch, but he’s still clearly aroused. The vein of metal that’s had Frank unable to compare Cable’s dick to any other he’s interacted with seems fatter than he remembers, circling almost the entirety of the base and squirming up at least half the shaft.

When Cable shifts his legs apart, Frank leans in without needing any more of an invitation. Cable’s still there in his head -- a warm press of familiar desire and control -- and as Frank sucks at the head, Cable’s hand strokes back and Frank can feel how that affects him. He sucks harder for it. It’s not difficult, like this, to get Cable worked up, and they’ve done this before.

Licking at the foreskin makes Cable groan outright. Frank enjoys the sense of Cable’s control locking up, stupid animal want replacing the easy commanding control. The first time they did this, Frank hadn’t been nervous, per se, but he hadn’t known how to play Cable like he does now. Cable had held complete control because Frank had let him have it and Frank had let him have it in part because he didn’t know what else he possibly could do.

Now, keeping his fists tight against his own thighs, Frank sucks Cable until he’s as hard as he was on the couch, hard enough he knows it must ache. He can feel, under his tongue, the strain of skin against implacable metal -- the way the metal bites in -- he can feel it and he wonders how Cable stands that. He twists to drag his canine along that line of strain and Cable groans, finally, finally putting his hands on Frank, one on his shoulder and one gripping the top of Frank’s hair to make his eyes water as those hips start working.

“Oh, fuck. No, don’t mind me, absolutely keep going,” Wilson says, and Frank can’t see him at all when he tries to roll his eyes to the side, but he can hear just fine the sound of clothes rustling and spit hitting a dry palm.

Maybe Frank shouldn’t be so calm, caught like this. He has to work hard -- tongue teasing the underside of Cable’s cock, pushing him against the roof of his mouth to suck wetly at him -- just to get Cable to focus again. He has to listen to the endless babble of compliments and eager wants drooling out of Wilson’s mouth. Keeps his jaw soft and his hands down, because that’s what Cable wants from him right now.

The truth is that Frank loves this. He loves the way that, even if he shuts his eyes and focuses on making Cable lose his mind, he can tell that Wilson isn’t looking anywhere else. The guy’s getting off on the sight, just like Cable. As Cable shifts his hands to hold Frank still and fuck his mouth in sincerity, he pushes thoughts into Frank’s mind like bubbles of carbonation, impressions of good and so wet so perfect, just like that.

However much it can annoy him -- how suddenly these men step into his life and how completely they overwhelm everything else when they’re around -- he loves being in the center of this. Loves their attention, their desire both for him and for each other, and how those desires mingle and mix.

 _Fuck, you look so good like that,_ Cable thinks, and there’s a sense there of understanding, of knowing how much Frank’s enjoying this and a rebounding off that enjoyment with Cable’s own. _Fuck, Frank, fuck, make us both crazy like this._

Frank’s pretty sure these two got insane without any of his help. Wilson more obviously than Cable, but Cable too, and that should be a turn off, but it’s very very possible at this point that Frank’s also some variety of crazy. They complement each other, and Frank can’t get enough of it.

It takes some doing to get his eyes to open, but when he does, he gets to see the way Cable’s face has gone slack, eyes dropping almost entirely closed. On impulse, Frank pushes an idea to the front of his mind, enjoying the way it takes Cable’s knees out from under him.

It's really something, the kind of control he feels on his knees with this man's cock in his mouth.

Cable barks something, groaning as he lifts one hand from Frank's hair to gesture Wade over. Frank's beyond really hearing at this point; eager as he is for this, he's aware that his face is burning and his ears are full of the sound of rushing blood. He wants it, he's mortified by his own want, he's enthralled by how his wants affect this powerful man standing over him; it's impossible to fight or rationalize any of it.

As Wade presses in beside Cable, Frank is dimply aware of some part of him bristling -- rough animal wary of being pinned or cornered -- that Cable somehow soothes even as he pulls his cock out of his mouth and turns Frank’s head toward the other merc.

Wade's fingers on his face are fever-hot and eager to touch, running over his cheek and jaw and then up into his hair, but it doesn’t worry Frank. Over the course of their bizarre relationship, Frank has sufficiently communicated the consequences of grabbing onto any of that hair -- short or not -- and it's eternally amusing to him how well-behaved Wade becomes when oral is on offer.

Sucking him into his mouth, Frank doesn't bother with any particular finesse. Wade always acts like every blow job is the most magical first time experience he's ever had, whimpering filthy praise as his mottled dick disappears into Frank's mouth. Wade's fingers scratch at Frank's scalp and pinch his ear but never grip his hair, never try to pull, and so Frank works him to the root and holds him there while those hips twitch. Cable groans some curse; Wade giggles; Frank lets them hear a low noise of satisfaction as he pulls back and sits on his heels, mouth open and tongue out, ready.

He doesn't have to say a word: for one, Wade picks up his cue without an engraved invitation, and Cable of course already got a mental preview. They tower over him, crowding in without a word, cocks so slick with precum that Frank can smell it. Wade is overly eager, as always, hand gripping his dick tight enough to fling beads of liquid out of the tip and right onto Frank’s tongue even before he starts to buck, and then his soft, hot cum splatters across his lips and down his chin.

Cable doesn’t talk so much as growl with arousal the moment he sees that, forcing his way past Wade while he’s still going just to rub the head of his cock over the mess on Frank’s lips and spill down all over his tongue.

The immediate is so hot Frank can barely breathe. The aftermath is a little off-putting. The moment Frank becomes aware of how the semen is cooling to his skin, drying there, the fat chub of his own erection decides to clock out for the evening. Having cum twice tonight already, it's not surprising or particularly disappointing, but he does wonder at his own horny idiocy -- how he can carry right on into fantasies he would never normally enact, pulled along by the tide of these two no matter how dog-tired he is.

Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand and grimacing at the sensation of smearing cum, he takes a moment to catch his breath. Climbing to his feet comes with a cacophony of cracking joints, a low grunt of pain as his back pops, and with just one word -- “Bathroom.” -- he heads off in the direction Wade had run off earlier.

The bathroom is just as sizable as the rest of the place, large enough to have a claw tub and a stand alone shower stall, but with decor that screams of decades long past. The toilet, tub, and basin are horrifically turquoise and there’s a deep blue tile with white grout slapped across the floor and halfway up the walls everywhere but in the showerstall. The shower, happily, is only tiled in shades of _aqua_ , with a glass door. The rest of the wall suffers from a loud floral print: blues with little pops of mustard-brown.

It’s eyesearing. Frank doesn’t want to believe it’s possible for Wilson to have redecorated just to be obnoxious, but it feels like something the man would do.

Standing at the basin, Frank runs the water hot and studiously does not look at himself in the mirror. He knows how he looks like this, despite how few would believe it’s a common occurrence, and he’s just too damn exhausted to consider the line starting to burrow between his brows or any of the weariness-bordering-on-desperation in his cum-streaked face.

Only after he’s scrubbed his face and neck, as he’s rinsing his mouth with handfuls of water, does he realize he forgot to grab a fucking toothbrush. Knowing Wade’s habits on that front, it won’t have occurred to him, either. He’ll have to see if there’s a shop somewhere nearby that doesn’t charge tourists an arm and a leg. There’s toothpaste, at least, a little travel-sized tube; for tonight, his finger works just as well for scrubbing his teeth.

After a moment, he shoves the ruined thong down his thighs and kicks it aside, running the tap again so he can wash the cum dried tacky to his skin and starting to crisp in his pubes. Even if Cable had some kind of plan for him staying in that, Frank’s more than done marinating in his own juices.

He considers the wrinkled slug of silk on the tile and wonders if he should bother washing it in the basin or if that’ll only ruin it worse. He’s not sure why he cares; he didn’t want them in the first place, and he’s not the one who decided to ruin them, but equally, they’re still a gift, and he has to admit they _did_ feel kind of nice.

Back in the bedroom, he finds Cable and Wilson already on the big bed, Cable laying near the center and Wilson clinging to his metal arm and babbling. Something about pancakes and fishing puns. The bags are right where they’d been dropped and Frank hesitates for a moment, looking at them, unsure if he should dig out one of his own pairs of underwear to sleep in.

There’s not a lot of the manners his ma tried to grind into his brain left in him at all these days. Typically he wouldn’t worry about something like underwear, but typically he’s sleeping in his own bed or the bed of some rent-by-the-hour motel, and this is very obviously someone’s house they’re staying in. 

“Come on, big boy,” Wilson says from the bed, sprawling half across Cable’s chest to pat the empty space on his other side. “C’mon. Jump up.”

When Cable flips the top blanket back, it’s easy to see he’s not wearing anything either. Knowing Wilson, he’s either wearing ridiculous pajamas or nothing at all, and Frank sees no sign of a shirt. It shouldn’t, but it makes it easier to forget putting anything on and just turn, rounding the bed and climbing in. His ma would have a fit, but she’s been dead for over a decade and he’s pretty sure she’d have bigger concerns about his life choices at this point anyway, so what does it matter. 

And it’s nice, pressing up skin-to-skin with Cable, feeling Wilson’s hand slide up his forearm and squeeze his bicep, hearing the breathy murmur of appreciative filth at his musculature. The bed is soft but still supportive, and it’s cooler here than New York, cool enough that even with the three of them laying together it’s comfortable with the sheet drawn up. The sound of the tide is far gentler than the rush of New York traffic. Even the air smells better: clean linen and the smell of Cable’s flesh under his cheek.

He’s tired. He’s been tired for so fucking long, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to actually fall asleep, too used to existing in the world of one more minute, minute after minute. Wilson carries on running his mouth and, when Cable nods off, he starts to snore. It's a strange bed, a strange place, a house he hasn’t even fully searched, and there’s no reason for him to be so comfortable.

He’s tired. He’s so tired.

When he closes his eyes and lets himself relax against Cable’s side, he falls asleep like he’s in his own bed. 


End file.
